Burdens
by shadowcrawler05
Summary: No one had ever asked her if she believed in G-d before...


Summary: No one had ever asked her if she believed in G-d before.  
  
Spoilers: None, really Disclaimer: I don't own JoA. I don't own the actors. I don't own anything. I don't even own my car. My parents own my car.  
  
-------  
  
Burdens  
  
G-d. No one had ever asked her if she believed in G-d before. As the daughter of a rabbi, they just always assumed she did. So, imagine her surprise when her friend of only a few months blurted the question out of the blue. She wasn't sure how to respond, because at the moment, she didn't know the answer.  
  
She thought about it. She used to go to the synagogue every week with her parents, when her mother was still around. She looked forward to it every week; it was a part of her. She loved hearing her father talk about G-d, the things He wanted from them, the things that she should do to establish the perfect life He'd set in front of her. She had always thought of G-d as a type of guide through life. Someone who didn't tell her exactly how to live, but gave her the expectations of what it took to be a good person, something to aspire to, something to hope for. She was always asking her father questions, always so enthusiastic about learning more. Doubting G-d's existence had never crossed her mind. He was there. Then came that day six years ago when her mother walked out the door with no reasons, no goodbyes. Only divorce papers on the kitchen counter for her father to sign and a note saying that life with them wasn't enough. She hadn't spoken to or about her mother ever since.  
  
That was when her questions changed. She wondered what sort of G-d would let that happen. G-d was supposed to be about love, kindness, compassion. Why would this G-d that her father told her about let a mother walk out on her ten year old daughter without even telling her why? Why would He let her just leave and break up their perfect family when they were so close? She didn't know. She thought maybe her father would, but she didn't ask him. She didn't want to, she was too angry with him. Outwardly, she blamed him for her mother's leaving. She'd yell at him, fight with him, tell him that her mother left because he'd loved G-d more than her. But she knew that wasn't true. She really only blamed herself. Maybe that was why she chose not to let anyone get close to her again. She knew that if G-d would let her own mother walk out on her life forever, why would He stop anyone else?  
  
As she grew older, she built walls around herself, refusing to let anyone in, or let herself out. The connection she'd once had with her father was gone. They no longer talked about things or went for walks together like they'd done when she was younger. She would have been lying if she'd said she didn't miss it. But her tough exterior would never let her admit it to anyone, not even herself. Her thoughts on G-d were buried deep into the back of her mind. She didn't think of Him at all until one day about three years after her mother left. The day her best friend's mother killed herself, she found herself sitting next to him in a dark hospital waiting room. He cried, and she wanted to tell him it would be alright. She couldn't. All she could do was think about G-d. Why would G-d let someone do this? Why would G-d take a mother from her thirteen year old son like that? Did G-d really hate people so much?   
  
Her friend slowly drifted away from reality, locking himself in his shed working on his art. She wanted to talk to him about what happened, but she knew she couldn't. It was his private problem, his own burden. It was up to him to work it out on his own. If he ever wanted to talk about it, he would have to come to her. Besides, she carried her own sadness from it. His mother had been a part of her life, too. Now she was nothing more than just another missing piece of a life that would never be whole.  
  
The following year, her father told her that her grandmother was sick. Dying. For two years she'd watched the only person in the world she'd actually respected grow weaker by the day, slowly drifting even closer to death. She didn't cry over it, because she didn't cry. She'd wanted to, but since her mother left, the protective walls she'd formed had become so thick that even she couldn't break through them.  
  
She remembered sitting in her room one afternoon, talking to G-d in her mind. Asking Him why He tortured people like He did. She always thought she'd lived a decent life. That she was a good person. Sure, she was a rebel, she fought the system. But her father told her that was what G-d wanted. For her to question His nature. She thought she forgave Him for her mother leaving, she thought she could try to forgive Him for her friend's mother's suicide. But for her grandmother, the one decent human being left in this world, she could not. She'd suffered enough in her life, living through Auschwitz, being forced to relive it every night in her dreams; she'd done nothing to deserve living every day in constant pain.  
  
She'd tried convincing herself that maybe there was a plan, a bigger purpose outside of the pain the events in her life had caused. But try as she might, she was never able to convince herself. If G-d were real, He would have listened to her. He would have heard her. He would have answered.  
  
"Grace?" her friend's voice cut into her thoughts. "Well…do you?"  
  
She was quiet for a moment, letting all of her thoughts sink in. "Not anymore." She grabbed her bag and threw it over her shoulder, taking off down the hallway. She could feel her friend watch her as she left. She could feel the look of sadness, maybe even pity, she was being given. She wondered if her friend thought any less of her now, but she didn't really care. Why should she? G-d didn't.  
  
Her father came into her room that night, as she sat at her desk doing homework to keep her mind occupied. That day was the first time she'd thought about G-d in over a year. It was the first time she'd thought about her actual faith in far more than that. She remembered that her father had always told her that faith wasn't about knowing. It was about not knowing, and yet believing anyway. She didn't liked that. She liked knowledge; knowledge was power; knowledge was truth. When she was younger, when she believed, she didn't know anything about life, about the world, about pain. She knew now.  
  
Her father sat on the edge of her bed, his hands on his knees, and asked her if everything was alright. She lied, saying everything was fine. That was never true. He put his hand on her shoulder, trying his best to offer some sort of comfort to the daughter he knew would never accept it. Without saying a word, she pulled away, turning her back on him as she went back to her work. She knew eventually he would give up on her. Everyone else already had. She didn't need to look up from the books in front of her to see the pain and disappointment in her father's eyes as he stood and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.  
  
I talk too much to myself  
  
and I turn my back on my faith.  
  
It's like glass when we break.  
  
I wish no one in my place…  
  
- Brand New, "Am I Wrong?" 


End file.
